Sunday, 10 May 2009

• Not going to say 'Thank You'

               I can’t grind this down to one event. Not anymore. Too much of it seems to mix and stick together, I can’t even be sure I have the ages right. When I was very young my parents were kicked out of their apartment and we went to live with my dad’s parents. We still live there today. She was loud and crude; and she laughed at me in ways that seemed both cruel and comical. And I’m the only one who gets to see this side of her, still. We fight and snarl and curse, circling, looking for weakness. She takes her petty jabs at me, and I don’t have the common sense to keep my mouth shut. All the while knowing, and so angry, that she has the last word. This woman can kick me out.

  Six? It started out innocuous. She told me I wasn’t pretty, that I never would be, and if I wasn’t smart I wouldn’t go anywhere. That was a hurtful thing for a six year old. I remember crying, yelling at her and stomping away from the table. Always at the table she’d start. Just one comment on top of a hundred before.  Before I’d go out the door she’d say something, about my hair or my clothes. Sometimes she’d say something when we were out, and I’d get this hunted, miserable feeling, without anywhere to hide. And I’d walk around all day, trying to hide, not to be noticed, because I’d already heard once what someone thought of me.

  I remember smiling, but not smiling; smirking? Leering? My eyes would slit and my lips would widen and I’d just look at her, and later at anyone, and I’d tell her just exactly what I thought of her. That got me yelled at a few times. But I never, ever felt guilty. Children only have so many ways they can fight back. I was a vindictive little bitch.

  Eight, nine maybe. She hit me, just once. Just that one time. I wanted to hit her back so, so badly. I’d done something, said something cruel again, and she’d had enough. But I couldn’t hit her, she was supporting us, she could kick me out (she threatened it enough), so I cursed at her, in a low, angry voice, my little hands fisted and I hated her at that moment. I walked away from her because it was all I could do. I got yelled at later.

  Twelve, I think. We’d gone to my cousins wedding. I was quiet and fearful and I sat in a corner hiding behind my dad. “She” was across the room, talking to the throng, as always loved. None of them had to live with her. I remember a boy coming up to me, god, at least three years older. I was afraid of boys then, but he asked me to dance. I’d never danced before, didn’t know how. My hands were sweaty and I was nervous in my cheap cotton dress; lavender with flowers, picked out by my dad. I knew someone had asked him to ask me. He was so persistent to get me out on the dance floor. Probably my cousin; love on the brain, she hated to see anyone alone. It was fun. I never knew his name. It was a good feeling, for once for someone to pay attention to me. I was grateful to that boy, no matter what reason he did it. A few weeks later we got pictures in the mail, and I wanted to know who the boy was; there were pictures of everyone who’d been there, and I kept asking. For a while my grandmother ignored me, before finally she yelled, she told me it wasn’t about me, that it was my cousins wedding, that I should be quiet. As though I made a point to make things about me. That hurt more I think, to someone who went out of their way to never be noticed. I went quiet.

  Seven; definitely. I remember I went into her jewelry box. I didn’t want anything expensive; it wasn’t about that, and I didn’t want anything that would hurt her too much to lose. I wanted to prove I could do it, that I could do something to get back at her without someone telling me no, without anyone telling me to sit quietly Dammit, and take what she gives you. I took one earring. It was probably once very pretty, but now it was broken. There wasn’t a matching one in sight. I took it. A week later I took a pin, and the week after that a broken necklace. Eventually she noticed and asked me if I was taking things from her. I was good at lying. But I wasn’t a thief; and I hate being dishonest. I started leaving things in her room; under the bed, below the dresser, as though she’d lost them instead. It didn’t make me feel much better to know even if I hated her, I wasn’t so bad a person that I could do it without feeling guilty.

  When nanny hit 65 she was diagnosed with diabetes. Too many extra snacks at night she told us. By 75 she’d had most of both feel cut off. All her toes and about half of each foot. She walks with special shoes and a cane. She’s easily tired now, but still thoughtlessly cruel. She forgets things, and she’s nearly childlike in her selfish demanding. Kind’ve ironic she once accused me of the same. She can walk now, but not for long since she refuses to do so even for the shortest of steps. She goes out to socialize; and everyone still loves her, they all think she’s a dear sweet woman.

  I am 20 years old I’m a little cynical and I’m not at all a nice person. But I am a good person; I’m honest, and I don’t hesitate to let people know what I think, but I don’t see the point in hurting other people needlessly. I resent my grandmother, I’m annoyed, exasperated, but I make sure and ask her each day if she’s had lunch, I drive her to her social do’s, and I make her coffee each morning. We still snipe, I refuse to eat her cooking and she still tells me I look like a refugee going out the door.

  I think I’ve won though. Age has nearly defeated her. She still tells me I’m selfish when I try and make her get her own coffee, or when I refuse to help her try to impress people with her useless little domestic things. I recognize that I’ve purposefully hurt her at times, and I recognize that I’ve done wrong. I know I’m not perfect, but the thing is that she can’t say the same. She’s old and stuck in her ways; anyone who does anything different is wrong, and she still likes to strut around as though she’s mistress of her domain. She’s about a foot taller than me, and every day I get up to say hello to that old woman, not yet totally senile. I smile at her and get her coffee, I give her kisses when she asks for them.

  I don’t know if I love this woman who’s been a large part of making me hate myself for most of my life. I pity her, because most of the problems she has now are of her own making, and even now she can’t recognize that. And I can’t say for sure if I’m grateful for her taking us in when we needed it. I don’t believe I owe her respect, not one single ounce; but I give it nonetheless, because I don’t see the point in upsetting this old woman, and I do care for her despite it all. Maybe because of it; If I wasn’t the cynical, insecure, dry bitch I am today, who would I be?

  But I’m not going to say thank you.

   

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